Rue
by Britta L. Liquer
Summary: Alfred is waiting with a shrinking patience for someone to appear in a seedy bar, somewhere in the dark alleys of Saigon. He can count how long he's waited, but he's forgotten the days and fails to notice it is already March 16. M for cussing, war.


Alfred crinkled his nose at the overbearing smell of cheap perfume that wafted all around him. The odour suffocated out the cool night air that was supposed to breeze in through the opened windows. It was too lovely of a night to be spending in the presence of half-alive girls. His company could at least give him a girl who was three-quarters alive; someone with more of a sparkle in her eyes, and not because she was eyeing his Rolex watch.

Quickly glancing at his watch, he sighed with thinning patience and growing annoyance; 9:45 pm. It was nearing curfew time, when all the good citizens and people had to get going back to their respective homes and stays, and the reason for his coming to such a low down place had not yet appeared. He didn't check the time and date much nowadays because knowing only made the war stretch further on, but it has been 2 hours and the novelty of smiling at scantily dressed girls and playfully waving them away had worn off; he just shot them a glare now to send them scampering to the next wallet. He turned his ears deaf to the raucous of laughter and hoots and grabbed the flask of whiskey beside him.

"You alone, Joe?" a high pitched staccato voice asked him in broken English.

Alfred didn't bother to put on a smile as he strained his eyes to the right. "Yes. And I want to keep it that way."

For what Alfred thought was for the 20th time that night, another bargirl had dared and taken a seat beside him. Like the rest, this one was pretty; long black hair that probably shone like a crow's feather's in the sunlight, lips stained blood red, deep dark earth-brown eyes, all situated on the heart shaped face of a petite vixen's body – looks that could kill, wrapped in a sensual silk red dress.

"No fun. You smoke, Joe?" she asked, calling him again by the term people – shady people – called G.I.s of whom they cared not to learn their proper names. Didn't matter to them; they just needed a one-time deal, someone to buy what they were offering.

"Used to. Don't anymore." Alfred replied, not knowing why he was wasting clean breath on another one of these girls. He's wasted enough on them.

He heard the sound of a lighter sparking to life as he took a swig of the flask, letting the rough whiskey burn his throat. As he set the flask aside, the smell of choking cigarette smoke thickened the air around him as the girl beside him breathed out her first drag. He waved the smoke away from his face.

"Why you here?" She asked as she pushed her long dark hair off her shoulder. "Girl?"

"Woman." He grumbled.

"Ya ya, same same. Many girl here. You want one, Joe? "

Eyes narrowing, he turned to face her. Obviously, this girl wasn't your average prostitute. The way she was soliciting him to try and buy a girl, any girl and not just herself, made Alfred guess that she might have ties with the manager. This meeting might be advantageous to his plan. "Just one; your singer."

The bar's songstress was the reason he was here. For two hours, he has suffocated in smoke, laughter, alcohol, just to see or even hear her. He had caught wind that she was working for the Paradis bar now, after he and her created a ruckus at Le Palace de Rêves when she tried to get his drunken and stoned ass out. Punching the daylight out of patrons and dragging them home is surprisingly frowned upon in bars.

The girl snorted and laughed. "Singer? She no fuck good."

Though she said this, insulting both Alfred and the woman he cared for, there was a serious look in her eyes. But Alfred didn't even bother to look at the girl anymore; He might punch her if he did.

"Look, I've had enough of fucking around with girls." He said, hoping his anger wouldn't seep through his gritted teeth. "I don't need a good fuck. Just her."

Stress and madness of this goddamned war had driven Alfred to do less than heroic and honorable things. Smoking cigarettes (and things worse) became something regular and routine, as did visiting bars and waking up with a hangover beside some chick he didn't know or remember. Addiction would have surely made itself permanent in his veins if he hadn't found her singing in a bar, walking slowly across the stage towards him with that look in her eyes – she didn't look a thing like when she was holding a gun.

"Sorry. No sell."

"Why not?" Alfred asked, though he could probably guess the reason why. While she could offer any prostitute they had here at Paradis with more gain than loss, losing their singer could cost them a lot. They had the only girl in possibly all of Saigon –perhaps all of Vietnam – that could sing in decent English. Their main source of income were hormone driven American G.I.s with a penchant for both enjoying a good girl and a good show. Combine these two factors and you get a green-eyed establishment.

The girl did not respond but continued to smoke her cigarette. Alfred could tell from the cloud of smoke forming over and over again in his proximity that she was furiously puffing those toxins out, most likely thinking hard about something (or just trying to kill him or herself faster). When she did speak again, it was not about the desired songstress.

"What you drink, Joe?" she asked in a lower voice.

"Whiskey. But I'm –"

"Whiskey? Feh. No Good. Vodka good."

Before Alfred could even say anything again, or continue where he was so rudely cut off, the girl had waved her hand to the bar tender. Her bracelets jangled together as she tried to catch his attention, yelling out in the native language of the land. Turning in her direction, the bartender finally yelled back in conversation, trying to surpass the volume of the other tens of conversations and sounds in the room, raising an eyebrow at what she was demanding. Their coal eyes glanced into Alfred's for a second and Alfred knew they were talking about him. Alfred busied himself with drinking his whisky again, watching with one eye as they talked and thrust fingers and thumbs in his direction. Finally the bartender, a bit exasperated, nodded his head and walked to the curtained entrance that lead to what Alfred believed was the alcohol cellar.

"Where is he going?" Alfred asked, watching the bartender quickly pull aside the curtain and disappear behind it.

"Special drink. I buy for you." The woman said, crossing her left leg over her right. "Today special day."

Alfred could hear bottles clinking together from whatever the bartender was doing. Then he emerged from behind the curtain and walked towards Alfred, a stoic and emotionless look on his face. Green liquid splashed into minute puddles as the bartender roughly placed the small glass in front of Alfred, then walked away to service other patrons.

"Thanks, but no thanks." Alfred said, pushing the glass away. Alfred was generally okay with drinking whatever alcoholic beverage came his way. He's had some moonshine that's almost killed him back in the 20's. He's had drinks from beers, to grasshoppers, to scotch and whiskey from his brother's, Arthur's, alcohol cabinet. Francis even once let him have a sip of his Grand Cru wine, though Alfred couldn't savour and appreciate it like the Frenchman could.

The girl shook her head and pushed the mysterious mixture back to him. "Drink. Maybe I sell you singer."

Half disbelieving what he was hearing, Alfred hesitantly grabbed the glass. "You're serious? If I drink this, you'll consider selling me her?"

"Yes yes. Now drink." The girl said, waving her hand to usher him to drink in slight annoyance.

"Bottoms up!"

Unassumingly, Alfred shot the vile drink straight down, not thinking ahead as to why the liquor was green or tasted not just of vodka. The glass slammed back to the counter as his face contorted, his head shook and his body shuddered. "Uuggh! That's some strong shit!"

"What you pay Joe?" She asked. Snuffing out her cigarette on the counter that was already stained with many snuffed out lights she turned and looked at him with a serious face, but smirking eyes – that Alfred did not see. "Not cheap."

Alfred didn't have any hard cash on him. The whiskey was all he brought along with him, since he didn't intend to buy anything that night. The only other thing he had right then was the clothes on his back and his Rolex, the latter of which he did not have much use for anymore.

"I've got no money on me right now." Alfred admitted.

"Fine fine. Special day, Joe. I make trade. No need money."

"Mmm… How about my watch?" Alfred suggested, tapping on the glass screen. "It's authentic. Rolex. The time's just a little off."

The girl's eyes sparkled with delighted greed. A Rolex watch like his was easily worth more than $5000. With that type of money, one could live forever in the life of luxury in a poor country like Vietnam. He could see her fingers twitch as he took off the watch and held it in front of her, itching to snatch it.

"OK. You give watch, you get girl."

"Woman." Alfred corrected, pulling the watch out of reach when she lunged her hand to grab it.

"Same same!" She growled, successfully snatching it this time. "Stay. I get… woman."

Alfred could not stop the small laughter that escaped his throat as he watched her scurry off. He felt the urge to smile and continue laughing, despite his previously sombre attitude, at the thought of finally seeing her again. It wasn't the best of places to be confronting (a bar where prostitutes lurked could hardly be considered the proper environment to arrange and meet a woman who was not a prostitute), but it was better than confronting out in the jungles where his death by her hands seemed ever possible. Here there was little worry she would ever try anything lethal, besides a punch to the face or an angry shove, when he tried to get close, telling him to go home. The thought of her cold actions should have created a pang of hurt and guilt, reducing him to silence, as it usually did. But the feeling of euphoria was stronger and Alfred just kept laughing.

"Woah there, Sergeant America. What's got you so happy about? "

Alfred held in his laughter to greet one of his boys that have managed to survive thus far. The brown haired soldier took a seat on the stool next to Alfred, setting down his unopened beer can. Alfred noticed that even now, this private was not wearing his dog tags. In its place was a small silver crucifix. It was crazy stupid luck that for the past year he hasn't gotten himself killed in the jungles and left nameless and unidentified. But it didn't matter. This guy was the kind who didn't seem to care whether or not he did die; he, like many others, has come to the understanding that death would come knocking eventually anyhow.

"Nothin', Andrews. Just bought myself the girl of my dreams." He managed to say before lightly laughing again.

"I thought you said you were done with girls?" The soldier said, propping his chin in his palm as his other hand fiddled with his necklace.

"Did I say girl? I meant woman." Alfred said, laughing even more at his mistake. "A fine and good woman."

That's right. To Alfred, she wasn't a girl, another prostitute or mistress in the street. She was a woman, but she wasn't just any woman. She wasn't even just a songstress. She was like him, and at the same time she was so different from him. At times she was close to him, at times she was so far. One time he held her in his arms, the next he lost her to someone else. Why? Because he couldn't always be with her, couldn't promise her that. So she had to run to the only other people outstretching their greedy red hands, and hand them whatever trust she had left after him. But now he can, and he didn't intend on letting her stay in that communist's arms and watch her suffocate and be crushed to death.

"You okay sergeant? Your eyes look kind of red." The soldier said, fiddling still with his necklace.

Alfred swung his feet, barely registering what the grunt was saying. "Eyes? Must be the smoke. Does that to you, y'know?"

The soldier just shrugged his soldiers, half believing. "If you say so."

"And I do." Alfred thoughtlessly said. "I do say so. God, you know what? I'm kind of hungry."

"Well Gerhardt's birthday is today. He's managed to get some Viet cook to make him a pot of the jeh and bun baw stuff he's fallen for. Everyone's getting a scoop and slice when it arrives."

"It's his birthday today? I thought it was next week?" Alfred asked, staring wide-eyed and grinning, but not truly grinning. If today was Gerhardt's birthday then that means it's already been four years since then.

"No sir. It's today."

And, with a gnawing sensation in his gut that overtook his euphoria, he had to ask, "What day's today?"

"March 16."

Right after he said that, a middle-aged woman came in with a pot of something that brought a sweet scent of relief (in this case, thick coconut cream) against the odour of the bar. There were shouts and cheers at the arrival of the dessert and the soldier that had been talking to him ran to join in the celebration. But Alfred just sat there, smile turning into a hard thin line, eyes blinking, and mind beginning to spin.

"March 16…" Alfred said. The alcohol in his stomach churned and he felt lightheaded as he gave nervous laughter and gripped his whiskey flask. He had not checked the date in so long that he had lost count. "Already?"

At first Alfred thought it was just another case of the general moodiness he felt whenever March 16 rolled by and he was in country, but if that were the case, it should have dissipated with a few chugs of whiskey by now. But his flask was empty and his mind was still swirling. And it got worse.

"Oh shit…" he hissed, letting go of the flask and fisting his hand in his hair. He felt hot and sweaty, and could hear his heart pounding.

There came a loud cracking and popping, making Alfred flinch. It was just his boys setting off a firecracker, but to him it sounded like gunshots – a catalyst for his nightmare.

Terror and fear gripped very tightly to Alfred's chest, refusing to release the hold it had on his heart. Screaming filled his ears though he couldn't see the person it belonged to until he blinked a couple of times and the reality-abandoning bar disappeared into obscure space. Gone was the seedy bar, filled with boys in men's clothing, and girls in skimpy outfits, who sang with unmelodic drunken voices to American tunes and Happy Birthday. It was replaced by blood stained dirt roads and tall grasses.

The screaming was preceded by gunshots now, some firing in the distant, others whizzing past his ear, causing him to flinch and duck in instinctual retaliation. There were horrified shouts of a language he didn't quite understand, shrill shrieks of children and hysterical crying, but still he couldn't find the bodies to voices; all he saw was dirt, blood, and ammunition shells.

The buzz of saxophones and reckless laughter hummed in his head, playing just beneath the yells and sobs of terrified innocents, leaving him terrified and terribly confused. But even those empty-smile laughs disappeared as the gunshots got louder and louder and drowned out the lesser of the two evils.

He stumbled across the road, knees feeling wobbly and ready to give out. The bile in his stomach churned as the silhouettes of people began to form and the limbs of dead torn up old men, women and children began to dot the road, some more crumpling to the ground in the distance and adding to the useless kill counts.

He wanted to say something, to yell something at some of these dead-eyed soldiers, demand why the fuck they were killing unarmed civilians. And he did. He yelled angry cusses at some trembling soldiers to cease and desist, half believing that they could hear him. But as he already guessed, his words just rang past them and echoed back mockingly.

He watched helplessly as villagers were gathered into a ditch and slaughtered like animals, their horrified cries and desperate pleas being ignored as something non-human. He could hear shrieks of mothers as their children dropped dead and were mutilated in front of their eyes. Clothing ripped and hysterical screams followed. Shutting his eyes couldn't save him from the terrible sight of brutality and blood that flowed and pooled on the dirt streets, or their shiny red hue as they gleamed sickeningly against green grass. Holding his breath couldn't erase the smell of blood, shit, urine, and burning houses. It was all too imprinted in his mind, even though he was never physically there. He wanted to retch.

"Just stop." He said through gritted teeth, covering his ears in vain. "Stop it!"

But the event haunted him like a vengeful spirit bent on reminding him every single thing his men (not his company, but still a U.S. company no less) did wrong that day. He flinched as he passed by a corpse whose intestines were spilt to the floor and blank glassy eyes stared accusingly at him. He ran past houses where he could hear babes crying and blood curling shrieks of their mothers. Or sisters.

Screaming as a soldier followed her, a girl ran right past him. She yelped as the soldier roughly grabbed her ponytail pressed his gun against her temple. The back of a green American uniform faced him, blocking his view so he couldn't see who the girl was. A bullet sounded deafeningly as it passed through her head and her body crumpled to the floor, face revealing itself to Alfred as the soldier carried on the mindless rampage. Alfred didn't want to look, but the sight locked his head and fixed his eyes on the horror; the face on the girl looked too much like that of the woman he was trying to protect. No wait. That was the face of his songstress. Yes. Alfred was convinced the face he was staring in horror at was hers.

Collapsing to his knees, Alfred sobbed as he reached out to hold and cradle her limp body in his arms. But he couldn't hold or touch her; his trembling fingers couldn't dare touch her already marred body. What hellish thing would he cause again if he did?

"Oh God… I'm so sorry." He said to her corpse. Of course, it didn't answer back. It was already dead in this nightmare.

Alfred heard faint talking underneath the continuous screams and guns:

"Hey, is Searge' okay?"

"Does he look like he's fuckin' okay? Fuckin' thought he was done smokin-"

"What is wrong, Alfred?"

Alfred whipped his head around at the impossible voice. There were only a few people who called him by his human name – only one who was female, whom he could have sworn had just died in front of his eyes. "Vi?"

And there she was, standing behind him in her white performer's dress; it shone so brightly against the burning house behind her. The smell of jasmine from her was a blessing against the revolting smell of drying blood and death.

"Vi! Oh thank God. Thank God! You're alive." Alfred managed to croak out. He reached out for her, but she backed away, towards the flames.

"No Vi. Don't do that. Fire. You'll die…"

There was a pained look on her face, the same one she had in the Palace de Reves. He didn't know if she had pitied him or if she had felt empathy for him. But frankly he was just too drugged up to give deep thought to her actions and his, then and now. So like that night, he grabbed her wrist, only with a firmer grip and deeper despair; he didn't want to let go of her again.

"You promised…"She whispered in a volume he could just barely hear.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean for this… I don't know why they're doing this. Oh, but thank God. You're alive."

"You promised me, Alfred, that-"

"I know! I'm sorry!" He yelled, pulling her towards him. "I'm sorry…"

He looked at her, picturing on her face cuts and bruises, her arms covered in the bandages to try and heal and conceal horrible burns. They weren't there, not really, but to him they were. They always were. Because he couldn't protect her. He couldn't put her in a cage and pray she didn't have to witness her land crumble and her people die – at his hands.

He had planned to drag her away from the burning house, to run across roads where dead people lay and bullets whizzed by, hoping to hit flesh. Maybe they could run past and dodge them. Maybe he could run away from all the shit that he had done and–

"Come with me."

"What?"

A helicopter's propellers sliced through the air, generating gusts of wind that deafened Alfred.

"Come with me, Vi! Back to my house!" He yelled, unsure if she could hear his words over the loud whirring. "The USA!"

A look of shock was all he saw on her face. "…What?"

"You don't belong here! I'll save you! Take you back with me!" He yelled, brinking on insanity. "I won't let him have you! Vi, I lo-"

Alfred never did get to finish his sentence. There was the look of anger in her eyes, a searing pain on the left side of his face and the sensation of falling back, that ended with the sound of his skull hitting the cold tile floor. That was all he remembered before he blacked out on the bar floor.


End file.
